


Not So Different

by JulyStorms



Series: Before Colors Broke into Shades [29]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 10:54:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3526580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulyStorms/pseuds/JulyStorms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She changed her mind three times before she asked him to stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not So Different

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tshilaba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tshilaba/gifts).



> Prompt: “#16. Things you said with no space between us.” Requested by [goggled-pikachu](goggled-pikachu.tumblr.com). Posting it today because it’s their birthday!
> 
> More notes can be found at my Tumblr.
> 
> This takes place immediately following the events of Chapter 59, after both of them return to Stohess to find the location of the Central MP’s HQ.

She changed her mind three times before she asked him to stay.

The request seemed out of place in the silence of her room; she had known it would, which was why she had hesitated to ask, but it was what she wanted, and Hitch was not the sort of person to pretend she didn’t want something when she did.

_“I don’t want to be alone,”_ perched on the tip of her tongue, too, but she forced it back down her throat, closed her mouth before she could say it aloud.

Marlowe paused at the door. He was already dressed for bed; it was late, and he had only come by to arrange to meet her the following day—for work, of course. They wouldn’t go on their usual morning patrol together. Instead, they were doing something illegal, and they would be doing it together. She would be the great distraction while Marlowe found the information about the Central Military Police, including the location of their headquarters.

He had come only to talk about work, and she had stopped him from leaving again by asking him to stay. It was a foolish request.

“It’s late,” he said, but only after a pause, as if the time meant something.

It wasn’t her temper that reacted to his words though she knew it looked that way to him: “Look—if you don’t want to, just say so, all right?”

She hated that she couldn’t tell him the truth.

She hated that in a single evening, Marlowe had seen too much of her, and all of it humiliating: she had been afraid, sweating in the cool night air, her breathing shallow and on the verge of panic. He’d said nothing of it afterward. She didn’t know why he hadn’t brought it up. Didn’t he hate cowards like her?

Knowing this, she had asked him to stay—because it was what she wanted, because she cared too much about him, because she didn’t want to be alone…and maybe a little because she hoped that he would forgive her for being such a coward.

Besides, they were friends, weren’t they? Yet he still didn’t _care_ —not that deeply, and not about her. Any feelings she felt beyond friendship were one-sided and completely unreasonable and she knew it. It was her own fault, anyway: she wouldn’t let him in. She wouldn’t let anyone in. She was too scared to try…like she was too scared of a great many things she’d never admit to.

“That’s not what I said,” came his response; it was accompanied by a slight tilt of his head in the dark.

“Well—what does the _time_ have to do with anything?”

“It’s late,” he repeated. “You’re tired, aren’t you?”

Of course she was. They both were. She leaned back against the ladder at the side of her bed, eyebrows raised. “What are you suggesting, huh?”

He crossed his arms over his chest; she could hear the sigh almost as clearly as if he were standing right next to her. “I haven’t suggested anything.”

“Neither did I.”

“Yes you did. You suggested I stay.”

“I asked if you wanted to,” she corrected, and then, a moment later, added: “I asked if you _would_.”

“…To sleep,” he said.

She just stared at him; the somber mood between them, born of the evening’s stress, lifted slightly as her lips pulled back in a smile. “Sheesh, Marlowe,” she teased; the words came to her so fast she didn’t even have time to consider pushing them away, “what _else_ would we do in my room—in my _bed_ —alone?”

From where she stood, she couldn’t tell if her words had made him blush or not, but he did sigh again—probably in exasperation. “I don’t know,” he told her; it was obviously a lie. “So this is a genuine request?”

“Yes.”

“To stay here.”

“Yes.”

“And sleep.”

“… _Yes_ , Marlowe.”

“Why?”

She turned to haul herself up the ladder to the top bunk. “Are you being difficult on purpose?”

“No,” he said, but it didn’t sound very innocent.

Once she’d made it to the top of the ladder, she fell into bed. “Well, the answer is because,” she said after a moment—a cheap answer to his question.

But it wasn’t like she could tell him the truth. Her head was still spinning from the evening they’d had: The Survey Corps were innocent but Annie wasn’t. The last thing she wanted was to be left alone in the room she’d shared with Annie—alone with stupid memories and in the dreadful silence. It wasn’t like she could go to Marlowe’s room uninvited. He probably wouldn’t like that, and neither would Boris…not that she gave a single damn what Boris thought of anything.

She heard Marlowe’s bare feet against the floor, and a moment later saw him pop up at the top of the ladder.

“Because?” he asked as if he expected her to finish her sentence.

“Because it’s what I want,” she told him and peeled back the blankets so that she could slide beneath them. “Are you stayin’ or not?”

He took another hesitant step up until he was kneeling at the foot of her bed. “It’ll be crowded.”

She meant to ask, _So?_ But what came out of her mouth instead was, “Good.”

He only hesitated a moment. “All right.”

Her narrow top bunk _was_ crowded with the two of them in it. His shoulders were too wide and there wasn’t enough room for her to curl her legs up like she was used to doing, but after a few minutes of shifting around, they managed to find a suitable arrangement.

It was comfortable; it made her feel safe. It was a dumb feeling to have and she knew it, but it was impossible not to feel that way pressed up against his side in her bed—a bed that had been, the last month, too big, too empty: suffocating like the silence in the room.

But together like this, there wasn’t any silence. They were pressed close enough that she could not only hear him breathe, but she could feel it, too.

She was almost asleep when Marlowe’s voice pulled her back: it was whispered, almost against the top of her head: “…Hitch?”

 She ignored it for a moment; she was so pleased to be drifting off quickly for the first time in weeks that she almost didn’t care _why_ Marlowe had decided to join her. But then his fingers brushed against her shoulder, and he tried again:

“Hitch.”

“Hm?” She brought a hand up and let her fingers brush against his.

He was the one who lifted his fingers to settle, just barely, between hers—but he didn’t say anything.

“What is it?” she finally asked, voice still sleep-laced.

“There’s nothing wrong with being afraid,” he said. She knew he meant it. Marlowe never said anything that he didn’t mean—that he didn’t really believe in.

_God_ , that was probably one of the reasons she was starting to care too much for him.

“I was afraid, too,” he added after a second.

Of course he was afraid.

But that was the difference between them, wasn’t it? She’d cowered behind him, and even though he was afraid, just like every other time he’d been afraid, he’d still stood up for himself and his beliefs.

“It’s different,” she murmured.

“No,” he said. “I don’t think it is.” He lifted his fingers higher between hers, and then curled them inward. “You came back.”

What else could she have done? Left him there? No. But she wasn’t ready to talk about that. “You’re holding my hand,” she said instead.

He ignored her. “You came back even though you were scared and you didn’t have to.”

“You’re holding my hand,” she repeated, this time softer.

He ignored her again. “That has to count for something.”

She smiled and curled her fingers in, brushing them against his more than was necessary. “You’re holding my hand,” she whispered.

He sighed—in exasperation, probably, or he was frustrated with her. She hoped he wouldn’t hold it against her. She hoped he wouldn’t give up on her. “Does it bother you?” he asked.

“No,” she said, and leaned against him. “I like it.”

One more small truth. It was the best she could do.

He didn’t push her away. His response, an, “All right,” that came a moment later, was almost too soft for her to hear.

She squeezed his hand again after he shifted and settled down—but didn’t take his hand back. “Marlowe?”

“Hm?”

She let out a breath and smiled, even though she knew he couldn’t see it. “Thanks."

For what? Maybe a little bit of everything. She half-expected Marlowe to ask, but he didn’t. Only his thumb brushing against the side of her hand told her that he’d even heard her.


End file.
